


Gonna Give You What You Deserve

by xsnarksthespot



Series: The Loaded Gun Strip Club [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Blow Jobs, Bringing Athos into the Mix, First Kiss, Lapdance, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, Multi, Sexual Content, established Portamis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:03:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsnarksthespot/pseuds/xsnarksthespot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continued adventures of the employees at the Loaded Gun Strip Club: Porthos manhandles a drunk jerk, Aramis gives the boys a preview dance, and Athos gets a little something extra. Call it payment for putting up with these two.</p><p>
  <i>Porthos didn’t immediately recognise the song, but Christina Aguilera quietly crooning “come here, big boy” did <i>not</i> bode well for his sanity.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna Give You What You Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> This is as smutty as I've ever written and even though that's not saying much, I'm regretting it already. BUT this took freaking forever to finish, soooo here's to hoping someone enjoys it. I stopped being mean to Athos, so there's that.
> 
> The song in the second scene is "Nasty, Naughty Boy" by Christina Aguilera.

"If you wanna avoid gettin’ thrown out on your arse, you’ll step the fuck back.”

Porthos was used to being tall enough to look down on most people who were ten seconds from getting a beatdown, but the punter in front of him was a good head taller. To say it was aggravating was a fucking understatement. Still, he kept his cool and merely narrowed his eyes at the bloke who’d dared to put a knee on the stage and reach for Aramis. 

Aramis kept dancing, but Porthos could feel his concerned gaze like a spotlight that kept finding its way back to him.

“Oooh. You think you can take me? I know Krav Maga, motherfucker,” the man slurred and slapped a hand against his chest, clearly drunk. And worse, painfully American.

“Get. Your. Fuckin’. Knee. Off. The. Stage.”

The party of women at the next table started twittering like a flock of birds ready to fight over a crust of bread. Mr. I-Know-Krav-Maga just laughed, clearly getting off on the attention, and glanced over at his own table. The couple he’d come in with looked embarrassed to say the least. 

“Jerry, just sit down. Jesus christ,” the woman sighed.

“Hey, hey. _Hey_. I just...want to see if that ass is as firm as it looks.” _Jerry_ laughed and swung an arm wide in a pointless gesture, which forced Porthos back a step. “Look, okay, look. He _wants_ the attention, okay? He’s a fucking _stripper_. He’s on display, that’s his _job_. And I’m paying...good money!” He made an abrupt lunge across the stage and swung an open palm at Aramis’ ass. Aramis dodged, but even then, Jerry's fingertips grazed skin.

Big dumb Jerry was about to have a _very bad night_. 

He made a choking noise as Porthos yanked him back off the stage by his collar, twisted his arm up behind his back, and then slammed his face down against the stage, holding it there.

“Time to go, Jerry,” Porthos whispered menacingly, close to the man’s ear. Jerry’s answering groan hitched up two octaves when Porthos started dragging him towards the door.

“Hey! Hey! Let me go or I’ll have to kick your--”

“Shut the fuck up, _Jerry_ ,” Porthos growled.

“ _Porthos_...”

Whatever Aramis was going to say in that worried tone would have to wait. Porthos was already halfway across the room, shoving the stumbling drunk along until they crashed out onto the sidewalk outside. Fully aware he wasn’t going to have much time before Athos made his way out from behind the bar or Treville got wind of what was going on, Porthos snatched the drunk up by his neck and slammed him against the outer wall of the club. 

Later, Porthos would wonder why he hadn’t noticed the bottle Jerry had apparently grabbed on their way out of the club. Hindsight is 20-20 and all that. 

“You’re never gonna set foot in this club again, you understand?,” Porthos hissed. His voice was still deadly calm, but he imagined the anger under the surface was giving him crazy eyes. “And if I hear even a fuckin’ whisper that you’ve treated any other dancer like you just treated ours, I will track you down and break every one of your bloody fingers, one at a goddamn--”

The bottle crashed against the side of his face, slicing into his cheek. Shocked into letting go and taking a step back, Porthos lifted a palm to press at the wound just below his eye. _Unfuckingbelievable_. So much for staying calm. He growled a curse and lunged forward, but Athos came barrelling out of the club doors, forcing himself in between them like a barricade.

Surprise flashed across the bartender’s face as he caught sight of the damage to Porthos’ cheek and his expression wavered between concern and a colder fury than Porthos could ever manage.

“I’m gonna knock his bloody head off,” Porthos growled, taking another step forward. The wall that was Athos’ body didn’t budge, however, and he gently grabbed Porthos’ face to angle it for a better view under the dim light inside the alcove.

“You’re going to get bloody stitches, is what you’re going to do,” Athos countered quietly. Even the sarcastic word choice and the deceptively even tone couldn’t hide the murderous gleam in his eyes.

“ _Athos_...”

“Go inside, Porthos. Find Aramis. I’m sure he’s halfway to the door already.”

Porthos shot a glare over Athos’ shoulder and was slightly pacified by the fact that Jerry looked like he was either going to puke or piss his pants any second. 

Pressure from Athos’ fingers on his jaw encouraged Porthos’ gaze to shift back to his friend.

“I’ll take care of this, Porthos. Please...just go inside and let Aramis see to your wound.” Athos shifted his hand around to the back of Porthos’ neck, squeezing soothingly. Porthos couldn’t help but wonder if the man _knew_ how well that tone and touch combination worked on him. How the tension leaked right out of him like a sieve. 

Judging by the way Athos slowly lifted his eyebrows and smirked, he had an inkling.

Porthos huffed. Big dumb Jerry wasn’t worth prison or losing his job, even if Porthos was capable of saying no to Athos. Which he wasn't. Still, he gave Jerry a petulant shove as he headed for the door. The last thing he heard as the doors swung shut behind him was Athos’ voice dropping to a deadly murmur and Jerry making a gratifying _squeak_. 

“ _Good-God-what-happened-to-your-face_ ,” Aramis gasped as he rushed up to him from the direction of the backstage door. His shirt was crookedly buttoned halfway and he was barefoot. Treville came up behind him with a glower pinching his forehead.

“Please tell me you didn’t just murder someone in front of the club,” their long-suffering manager sighed.

“I didn’t just murder someone in front of the club,” Porthos parroted brightly. Now that he was away from that drunken prick, he was regaining his good humor.

The same couldn’t be said for Aramis. He cursed quietly in two languages as he grabbed Porthos by the jaw and turned his face to the side, nearly the exact same way Athos had only a minute before. 

“You know I can’t keep up when you get goin’ like that, Aramis. Are you tellin' me I’m not pretty anymore?”

Aramis gave him a look somewhere between exasperated and moon-eyed. “I said you’ll be the death of me. In slightly more colourful language.”

“It’s just a little cut, Mum,” Porthos teased. After slicing a furtive glance towards Treville, who was thankfully busy calming a pair of women nearby, he leaned in to steal a chaste kiss. “I shoulda had him faster than that. Sorry.”

“Shut up. Watching you manhandle that bottomfeeder was the highlight of my night,” Aramis murmured affectionately. “Now let’s get this cleaned up so I can see if you need a few stitches.”

“Can we use the first aid kit behind the bar so I can sneak a beer along the way?”

Aramis huffed a quiet laugh. “Only if you pay for it.”

Porthos childishly scrunched up his face, but immediately regretted it. His wince of pain didn’t go unnoticed, either. Aramis frowned and started urging him towards the bar.

“If you promise not to make that face again, I’ll consider aiding and abetting. Just please, shut up and let me see to your wound.”

Beaming a smile over his shoulder, Porthos let Aramis direct him across the room. They weren't quite quick enough to avoid a critical staredown from Treville, but you win some, you lose some.

\----

“Gentlemen, as you well know, Friday is Burlesque Night.”

Porthos let out an exaggerated groan at this announcement, aiming it at the cracked bathroom door Aramis was behind, but Aramis only talked louder to spite him.

“ _And_ , as you are also aware, it only comes once a month. As such, I needed to come up with a new set to give it the respect it deserves. Being the most _insightful_ and _accommodating_ men I know...naturally, I chose the two of you to preview.”

Athos pushed a gust of air out through his nose. It was about as close to a laugh as the man ever got. 

In an attempt to muster up the nonchalance he was probably going to need to get through the next few minutes, Porthos snickered and sank down further into Aramis’ sofa, propping his feet up on the coffee table. The cut on his cheek was halfway healed, but Aramis had still insisted on inspecting it and attaching new butterfly stitches that morning. Porthos scratched idly at the edges of the adhesive tape as he rested his head against the back of the sofa.

“I bloody hate Burlesque Night,” he huffed good-naturedly. 

“You love Burlesque Night,” Athos countered with a knowing glance.

“Iiii...bloody hate that I love Burlesque Night?"

Aramis passed through to the kitchen, too quickly for Porthos to get a good look at his costume (much to Porthos’ growing impatience). He kept talking though, even when a wall muffled his taunting contribution to the conversation. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Porthos.”

“Fuck off. I’m not ashamed.”

“Uncomfortably aroused for an entire shift, but never ashamed,” Athos deadpanned.

Porthos pointed at Athos and gave him a look that said ‘see, _you get me_ ’. 

“It’s the bloody music,” he half-heartedly complained, unnecessarily really. He’d never been exactly quiet about the fact that the music - with its slow, carnal drag and big, bold female voices - shot straight to his groin _every damn time_. Combined with Aramis’ dance style fitting seamlessly with the theme, well, he really didn’t stand much of a chance.

Now that they were sleeping with each other, it was a thousand times worse.

As if summoned by Porthos’ wandering thoughts, Aramis carried a dining room chair out into the room and set it down backwards in front of the coffee table. When he was satisfied with its placement, he moved around to the edge of the table and stared down at Porthos with an expectant lift of his eyebrows. It took a moment for Porthos to react, since his slowly widening gaze was dragging up over the costume he was only now seeing in full view.

It was an old west sheriff’s uniform, black on black and perfectly tailored. It had a matching hat, as always, but that really wasn’t the worst of it. 

As far as Porthos was concerned, the pièce de résistance was the gunbelt holding a pair of stage pistols, riding cockeyed on Aramis’ hips. Or maybe it was the vintage handcuffs dangling from the belt that made his mouth go dry. They _were_ strategically placed to draw attention to his crotch, after all.

Porthos was still trying to decide which was “worse” when Aramis cleared his throat above him. The dumbstruck look Porthos gave him, when he finally did manage to jerk his gaze up to the man’s face, might have been embarrassing, if all the blood in his head hadn’t already headed south. And if Aramis’ crooked smile hadn’t made him grin stupidly, instead.

“A bit of assistance, Porthos. Please,” Aramis finally chuckled, nudging at Porthos’ knees to knock his legs off of the coffee table. 

“Oh.” Porthos jumped to his feet while Athos sipped lazily from a glass and didn’t budge an inch. The two men standing quickly carted the coffee table out of the room, depositing it temporarily in the hall. 

As they made their way back to the sofa, Aramis slid his fingers up into the curls at the base of Porthos’ skull and tugged him backwards a step. Porthos growled heatedly and made a move to snag Aramis by the handcuffs hanging from his belt, but he dodged away with an infuriating smirk. Porthos was left to reclaim his seat with a childish pout.

Straddling the backwards chair, Aramis tapped a button on a small remote and tossed it onto the side table where his stereo sat. 

Porthos didn’t immediately recognise the song, but Christina Aguilera quietly crooning “come here, big boy” did _not_ bode well for his sanity.

By the fifth lyric - _'Cause I wanna give you a little taste...of the sugar below my waist_ \- Porthos was shaking his head and fighting to keep a stupid smile off of his face. Frankly, he was failing spectacularly, but Aramis wasn’t even _bothering_ to temper his. This wasn’t the carefully planned smirk Aramis won over punters with. This was the giddy smile that reached all the way up into his eyes.

It was the same smile he’d given Porthos the first morning they’d woken up naked in bed together, after Aramis had kicked him awake and promptly stretched like a cat, begging for attention. (“You should get up and feed me, Porthos.” “Oh, I’ll feed you somethin’ alright…”)

Athos abruptly cleared his throat. As if to say, ‘yes, I am, in fact, _still here_ , you idiots’. 

Porthos shifted an apologetic look his friend’s way. 

It didn’t last long, because Aramis chose that moment to abandon the chair he’d been dancing around in favour of slinking towards Athos with the handcuffs dangling from his hand. He’d stripped off his leather duster, vest, and button-up shirt by that point, exposing a white ribbed undershirt, and his braces hung from his hips as he moved.

Their favourite poker-faced bartender tilted his head and aimed a warning look at the dancer headed his way. 

As usual, Aramis breezily ignored it. His heated gaze slipped towards Porthos for a second instead, as if he were debating something. Porthos notched his head towards Athos and nodded encouragingly, even turning a bit in his seat to get a better view of the man he’d just targeted.

“ _Traitor_...,” Athos grumbled.

Porthos shrugged, utterly unrepentant, but Athos was too distracted already to pull another face about it, anyway. His chest rose and fell a little faster as Aramis climbed into his lap, pinning his hips between bent knees. Christina was still wailing hotly in the background ( _Oh baby for all it's worth, I swear I'll be the first, to...blow...your...mind_ ), but the atmosphere in the room had charged so suddenly that they could have been sitting in utter silence and it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference to Porthos.

Aramis still seemed finely tuned to the leisurely beat of the song, however. He gripped the back of the sofa at each side of Athos’ shoulders and rolled his body to the rhythm. 

“This--”

Nosing under the edge of Athos’ jawline, Aramis breathed a crooked path along his skin without actually touching down.

“-- _is not part of your act_ ,” Athos finished, the words rushing out through clenched teeth. 

Aramis smirked against his throat. “How do you know what’s part of my act?”

“You don’t--you don’t crawl out into the audience, Aramis.” Athos closed his eyes and the breathless hitch in his voice was so perfectly timed with the lyric “ _I got you breakin’ into a sweat_ that Porthos couldn’t stifle the throaty giggle that rumbled out of his mouth. He might have felt guilty about it if he hadn’t noticed Athos digging his fingers under Aramis’ holsters and into his thighs.

“Ah ah ah,” he smirked, reaching over the sofa to half-heartedly bat one of Athos’ hands away. “You know the rules, mate.”

The strangled noise that Athos made could best be described as _resentful_. But he dropped his hands away all the same.

“Ahh, but we’re not at the club, Porthos. My house, my rules,” Aramis countered. “Which means, of course, that there aren’t any.” He shot an unapologetic smirk at Porthos, then abruptly licked a path from the hollow of Athos’ throat to the pulse in his neck.

Athos inhaled sharply and all three men froze in place. Porthos blinked owlishly as his pulse decided this was a thing that was actually happening. A real thing. Happening. In real life.

They’d talked about this. About Athos and them. Together. As they were in everything else.

Course, they were fucking in one of the private dance rooms at the Loaded Gun at the time, so Porthos wasn’t sure if it really counted. 

Athos had banged on the door, grumbling a warning that the club was close to opening, and Porthos had casually said something like ‘he sounds stressed - we should invite him in’ before driving Aramis into the unforgiving carpet with a rough thrust of his hips and a shameless grin. Aramis had cursed. Something long and graphic, in Spanish that Porthos’ could only half-translate, but he caught enough to make him laugh, deep and warm and willing. He’d wrapped a firm grip around Aramis’ cock and murmured ideas on how Athos could make himself useful with each slow thrust, until Aramis finally silenced him with a groaning kiss and the hot spill of his approval between their sweat-slick bodies.

Between the song, the memory, and Aramis silently staring down at Athos, Porthos wasn’t surprised to find himself painfully hard already. 

The song ended and silence set in, but none of them showed any sign of caring. Aramis shifted his grip to the side of Athos’ neck, draping the handcuffs over his collarbone, and waited. In Porthos’ experience, the man could be _infernally patient_. Well, at least until clothes started coming off. Then it was a whole different story.

Athos dropped his gaze to Aramis’ mouth, then flicked his eyes to Porthos. He had the look of a hungry kid who’d abruptly had an entire cake placed in front of him, but was now trying to sort out exactly how bad he’d get beaten if he stuffed his face into it.

Aramis sent a look his way, too. And Porthos was a bit surprised, having the two of them stare at him like that. Like they were waiting to see if _he_ was alright with where this was headed. 

Because this _was_ headed somewhere. Even with the two of them sitting eeriely still, there was no doubt about that.

Porthos felt a dazed grin slowly shape his mouth. 

Apparently, that was all the confirmation Aramis needed. He blindly tossed the handcuffs aside and fisted his hands into Athos’ shirt, jerking him to his mouth. 

Athos stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the absence of Aramis’ typical finesse. Or maybe it was the greedy curl of Aramis’ tongue that made Athos arch up into his touch. Either way, Aramis took full advantage, flinging his cowboy hat off without pause. It had barely been holding onto his head anyway, with the way the two were already pushing and pulling at each other.

As open as their fledgling relationship was, Porthos still expected a slight pang of jealousy to kick in. Because it usually did, no matter how hard he tried to shove it down. Instead, all he felt was too hot in his own skin. 

This was _Athos_. Heat of the moment fantasies aside, he’d never dared to think anything like this was really on the table. 

And yet now, with Aramis pulling back with a dizzy smile and Athos chasing after his mouth, making a small helpless sound they’d never _ever_ heard from him, didn’t even think him _capable_ of, Porthos couldn’t help but wonder why the fuck they hadn’t been doing this all along.

Idiots. That was the only conclusion he could come up with. They were all stubborn idiots, one and the same.

Aramis dug his hands into Athos’ hair and tugged until the slope of his neck was exposed. A shaky breath shuddered through Athos as teeth grazed down his throat, but then Aramis was sliding down the length of him to kneel on the ground and Porthos was fairly sure Athos stopped breathing altogether.

Porthos was _definitely_ alright with where this was headed.

It took Aramis quietly laughing for him to realise he’d said as much out loud, but even then, all he did was shrug. Athos flushed and huffed something close to a laugh too, his glazed eyes locked on the man dragging hands up his thighs. 

“Are _you_ all right with where this headed, my friend?” Aramis asked Athos with a lazy lift of one eyebrow. His fingers had hooked under the waistband of Athos’ jeans and appeared to be sliding up and down against the skin underneath. 

Athos blinked and opened his mouth, but a drag of Aramis’ thumb over the bulge in his jeans drove his head back against the sofa before an answer could take form. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Aramis hummed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Athos hissed. “Yes, just...for the love of God--”

Aramis cut off whatever impatient demand was on its way by unbuttoning Athos’ jeans and freeing his cock. Porthos straightened in his seat, swallowing dryly at the first teasing swipe of Aramis’ tongue. He’d been on the other end of this, but fuck, _this was Athos_. His brain would not. Stop. Stuttering.

Aramis wrapped his fingers around the base of Athos’ prick and continued to lazily trace his tongue along the length of him until Athos clamped his eyes shut against the wicked gaze staring up at him. Only then did Aramis surge up to take Athos fully into his mouth with an obscene moan that Porthos knew the vibrations of all too well. 

He’d been prepared, and more than willing, to enjoy the show from a distance, but Athos flung a hand out to grab the arm Porthos had draped across the back of the sofa, like he was already searching for something to ground him. 

“Yeah, I know. It’s good,” Porthos smirked. “All that refined politeness goes out the bloody window as soon as he’s got a dick in his mouth.” 

Aramis coughed a laugh around Athos’ cock, making Athos tighten his grip on Porthos’ arm and buck his hips, just once, like he couldn’t control it. But the mock-glare Aramis sent up at Porthos only received a smug smile in return.

Cautiously, Porthos slid across the cushions and curled his fingers around the back of Athos’ neck. Athos flung his eyes open at that, giving Porthos an up close look at how far gone he already was. With the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by his pupils and his teeth digging into his bottom lip, Athos almost looked like a stranger, A fucking hot stranger getting sucked off within reach, but still. Porthos exhaled and slowly lowered his mouth to press an open-mouthed kiss to the pulse in Athos’ throat. 

Sinking his free hand into Aramis’ hair while he did it earned him an enthusiastic - albeit _muffled_ \- moan for his effort. 

The sound seemed to roll up Athos’ body until Porthos felt a hand clench demandingly in his hair. He only resisted the pull long enough to massage his fingers into Aramis’ scalp, eliciting another groan and a sharper tug on his own hair. He came up smirking at Athos’ impatience, which seemed to irritate and amuse Athos all at once. He growled a curse and hauled Porthos to his mouth.

It was entirely possible half the flats on their floor heard Aramis’ moan, even with his mouth so very, very full.

Resisting the urge to laugh was easy for once, because Porthos was dead set on kissing Athos like this was his one and only chance to do so, seeing as the probability of that was high. He carded his fingers rhythmically through Athos’ hair, easing the kiss from hard and frantic to leisurely sensual, and then back again, a vicious cycle that made Athos start to keen quietly at the back of his throat. It helped that Porthos kept driving Aramis to make vulgar sounds with carefully timed flexes of his hand in the dancer’s hair.

Eventually, Athos broke the kiss, panting, biting back a groan as his hips inevitably started rolling forwards to meet the hot warmth of Aramis’ mouth. Porthos only caught a glimpse of his wild eyes before he was burying his face in Porthos’ shoulder, but the sink of teeth into the thin fabric of his t-shirt confirmed his suspicions. 

“Almost,” Porthos murmured for Aramis’ benefit. Unsurprisingly, that only spurred him on. He latched onto Porthos’ thigh and squeezed hard enough to bruise as the dip of his head into Athos’ lap became hurried and greedy. 

Turning to nip at the curve of Athos’ ear, Porthos breathed a rumbling command against his skin. “Come on. Let go. We’ve got you.” The teeth in Porthos’ shoulder immediately dug deeper, pulling a charged growl from his throat.

With one last pump of his hips, Athos tensed, tight as a bow string. His groan was muffled against Porthos’ shoulder, but was still forceful enough to draw a pleased echo from Aramis and Porthos both. Porthos dropped his heated gaze to Aramis, he wasn’t sure he could have stopped himself if he tried, but watching Aramis’ throat work as he swallowed was fucking _worth_ watching, anyway.

“Jesus Christ,” Porthos growled.

As Athos sank back into the cushions, Aramis drew up and tucked him back into his jeans, smiling crookedly at Porthos all the while. Every bone in Porthos’ body ached at that fucking smile, but that was nothing new. He kept one hand massaging into Athos’ hair while the other reached out to tug Aramis to his mouth. He had to bend over to meet him, but Aramis had always been better at multitasking. Pushing Porthos back against the sofa, Aramis straddled his lap and spread a palm over Athos’ chest, all without breaking the kiss. 

Abruptly, Athos blew out a heavy breath. He seemed reluctant to cover Aramis’ hand with his own, even as he did just that. But it became clear in the way he removed the hand and his shuttered eyes squinted open that Athos was being Athos, shutting down so quickly that they might have missed the change if they hadn’t parted to stare at him. 

"I...I have to go," Athos stammered, his hands lifting to rub at his face. Or maybe he was just hiding from them. Either way, they both tensed as Athos lurched to his feet.

"Athos…” Aramis put out a hand to try and slow his exit, but Athos evaded his touch.

“I’m sorry, I just...I have to go.” The door didn’t slam behind him, but it may as well have. 

Aramis and Porthos got to their feet and hurried to the door, but an empty hallway was all they found on the other side. Christ, had he fucking _ran_ to the stairs? Porthos clamped a hand around Aramis’ neck, feeling the man’s anxiety like an extra layer of skin coating his own.

“Oi, look at me,” Porthos hummed, shutting the door and turning Aramis towards him. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll sort it out.”

Aramis closed his eyes and leaned in to press his face into the crook of Porthos’ neck. “I am a fool,” he mumbled.

“Don’t start that. He’s just...well, he’s bein’ Athos, isn’t he? It’ll be fine. Trust me.” His conviction was halfway forced, but if he believed in anything, he believed in the three of them. They’d recover. They had to.

Wrapping his arms snuggly around Aramis’ shoulders, Porthos pressed a kiss to his temple. “In the meantime...is it completely shitty of me to ask for a repeat on that dance? I mean, you _do_ need proper feedback, yeah?”

Porthos felt the answering smirk against his collarbone, but he added on an extra bit of encouragement, anyway. For _both_ their sakes.

“This time, I’ll be the one who ends up on his knees.”

\-----

The dangling lightbulb in the storage closet behind the Loaded Gun’s bar flickered annoyingly. Its persistent low-level buzz was also veering hard into headache territory, but Porthos had bigger fish to fry.

"You've hardly said a word to us all week."

Athos rose stiffly from his crouch next to the wall of cleaning supplies and braced his hands on the shelves, keeping his back turned. "Porthos..."

"Don't Porthos me. It's been a week. Aramis won't talk about it, but he's sleepin' bad again," Porthos grunted. He reluctantly kept his distance, thumbs tucked into his pockets. "Is this how it's gonna be?"

Sighing, Athos adjusted items on the shelves with no apparent purpose in mind. "I...It shouldn't have happened, Porthos."

Hurt and anxiety smashed together inside Porthos' chest. "Okay."

"It was a mistake."

"I got it," Porthos grimaced.

"You have each other," Athos added somewhat lamely.

Porthos wanted to shake him. Just rattle the stubbornness right out of him. But that would be like throwing rocks at the bloody sun and demanding it stop shining. Besides, he felt as guilty as Aramis did. They'd crossed the line again, like they had with each other, only this time it had backfired. Porthos pushed a hand roughly through his curls.

"Look. You had a moment of weakness and we took advantage. It won't 'appen again, alright?" There was a pleading note to Porthos' gruff tone. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you shut us out completely."

Athos turned. That one shitty little lightbulb didn't put out enough light to read his expression, so Porthos shuffled a little closer. 

That is, until Athos flinched and Porthos felt his stomach plummet to the ground.

It had been years since he'd felt the kind of regret that threatened tears. The shameful sting of it was just as overwhelming as he remembered. "Okay," Porthos whispered weakly. Nothing about this was okay, but he was drowning. He lifted his hands apologetically and took a step back. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured, turning for the door. "I'll...I'll give you some more time."

His hand was on the doorknob when Athos gripped his shoulder, hesitantly at first, then tighter until Porthos found himself roughly turned around and shoved against the door.

Athos tasted like wine, but he kissed like a man searching for salvation _outside_ of the bottle for once. 

The shock of it was like a punch to the gut. Porthos stiffened and then groaned, his hands moving mindlessly to cradle Athos' face. It was a long breathless moment before uncertainty forced him to pull away from the kiss. Pressing their foreheads together, he cleared his throat and smirked grimly.

"I hate to be the bloke who complains about mixed signals--"

"No, I know, I'm sorry," Athos winced, closing his eyes. "I just...I panicked. I don't know what I'm doing, Porthos. I cant--I hardly deserve the two of you as _friends_ , let alone whatever....this...might be."

"Rubbish," Porthos growled. There was no arguing with that tone. At least none that he'd listen to. He slipped a hand into Athos’ hair and tugged until those sharp eyes were blinking up at him. "You're one of the best men I've ever known.”

A smirk flickered at the edge of Athos' mouth. "That may be, but as Aramis likes to say--"

"--Don't you dare--"

"--You're a terrible judge of character."

The upside down u-shape of Porthos' mouth could, possibly, have been called a pout. Maybe. But since it strengthened Athos’ smirk, he swallowed his pride.

"Speaking of Aramis..." Porthos lifted his eyebrows pointedly.

Athos sighed, dropping his hands from where they'd been fisted in Porthos' shirt. "I'll talk to him."

Porthos just hitched his eyebrows a little higher.

"Today?"

"Now," Porthos corrected. "You'll talk to him now. And you won’t fall into a panic about what this all means." 

Athos mustered up an indignant huff, but it sounded half-assed to Porthos. Especially when he caved with only a regal lift of one eyebrow. "I'll talk to him now."

Flashing a crooked grin, Porthos hauled Athos into a hug and squeezed a groan out of him. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Athos murmured. Despite his long-suffering tone, he looked disappointed when Porthos released him to wrap an arm casually around his shoulders. 

“Mmhmm, come on. The club’s gonna open soon and if Treville even gets a whiff of all this, we’ll have to sit through a painful speech about _rules against employee fraternisation_.” 

No one had the heart to tell Treville that half the staff was sleeping together already. In fact, there was a pool going on when he’d find out the full extent of it and make them all watch videos about sexual harassment in the workplace as some kind of passive-aggressive punishment.

Athos snorted and went in search of Aramis, leaving Porthos to lean against the doorframe. From this angle, he had a good view of the rest of the club and could see Athos approach Aramis near the stereo system. Aramis straightened from his lean against a speaker, looking regretful and hopeful all at once.

Athos tentatively reached for Aramis’s bicep as he whispered something, but Aramis bypassed his hand altogether, clutching the front of Athos’ shirt and dropping his head to the man’s shoulder. The nervousness in Athos’ face melted away as he pressed his cheek against Aramis’ hair and stroked a hand over his back.

A smile dawned slowly on Porthos’ face. 

They were all still idiots, he was sure of that. But whatever happened, wherever this went or didn’t, at least he had one more reason to believe they’d always be idiots _together_.


End file.
